CHAPTER XIII

TWO THOUSAND MILES FOR A FIVE-MINUTE SPEECH

SOON after the opening of our boarding
department, quite a number of students who
evidently were worthy, but who were so poor
that they did not have any money to pay even the
small charges at the school, began applying for
admission. This class was composed of both men
and women. It was a great trial to refuse admission
to these applicants, and in 1884 we established
a night-school to accommodate a few of them.

The night-school was organized on a plan similar
to the one which I had helped to establish at
Hampton. At first it was composed of about a
dozen students. They were admitted to the
night-school only when they had no money with which
to pay any part of their board in the regular day-school.
It was further required that they must
work for ten hours during the day at some trade
or industry, and study academic branches for two
hours during the evening. This was the requirement
for the first one or two years of their stay.
They were to be paid something above the cost of
their board, with the understanding that all of their
earnings, except a very small part, were to be
reserved in the school's treasury, to be used for paying
their board in the regular day-school after they
had entered that department. The night-school,
started in this manner, has grown until there are
at present four hundred and fifty-seven students
enrolled in it alone.

There could hardly be a more severe test of a
student's worth than this branch of the Institute's
work. It is largely because it furnishes such a
good opportunity to test the backbone of a student
that I place such high value upon our night-school.
Any one who is willing to work ten hours
a day at the brick-yard, or in the laundry, through
one or two years, in order that he or she may have
the privilege of studying academic branches for two
hours in the evening, has enough bottom to warrant
being further educated.

After the student has left the night-school he
enters the day-school, where he takes academic
branches four days in a week, and works at his
trade two days. Besides this he usually works at
his trade during the three summer months. As a
rule, after a student has succeeded in going through
the night-school test, he finds a way to finish the
regular course in industrial and academic training.
No student, no matter how much money he may
be able to command, is permitted to go through
school without doing manual labour. In fact, the
industrial work is now as popular as the academic
branches. Some of the most successful men and
women who have graduated from the institution
obtained their start in the night-school.

While a great deal of stress is laid upon the
industrial side of the work at Tuskegee, we do
not neglect or overlook in any degree the religious
and spiritual side. The school is strictly
undenominational, but it is thoroughly Christian, and
the spiritual training of the students is not
neglected. Our preaching service, prayer-meetings,
Sunday-school, Christian Endeavour Society, Young
Men's Christian Association, and various missionary
organizations, testify to this.

In 1885, Miss Olivia
Davidson, to whom I have
already referred as being largely responsible for the
success of the school during its early history, and I
were married. During our married life she
continued to divide her time and strength between our
home and the work for the school. She not only
continued to work in the school at Tuskegee, but
also kept up her habit of going North to secure
funds. In
1889 she died, after four years of happy
married life and eight years of hard and happy work
for the school. She literally wore herself out in
her never ceasing efforts in behalf of the work that
she so dearly loved. During our married life there
were born to us two bright beautiful boys, Booker
Taliaferro and Ernest Davidson. The older of
these, Booker, has already mastered the brickmaker's
trade at Tuskegee.

I have often been asked how I began the practice
of public speaking. In answer I would say
that I never planned to give any large part of my
life to speaking in public. I have always had more
of an ambition to do things than merely to talk
about doing them. It seems that when I went
North with General Armstrong to speak at the
series of public meetings to which I have referred,
the President of the National Educational
Association, the Hon. Thomas W. Bicknell, was present at
one of those meetings and heard me speak.
A few days afterward he sent me an invitation to
deliver an address at the next meeting of the
Educational Association. This meeting was to be
held in Madison, Wis. I accepted the invitation.
This was, in a sense, the beginning of my
public-speaking career.

One the evening that I spoke before the Association
there must have been not far from four thousand
persons present. Without my knowing it,
there were a large number of people present from
Alabama, and some from the town of Tuskegee.
These white people afterward frankly told me that
they went to this meeting expecting to hear the
South roundly abused, but were pleasantly surprised
to find that there was no word of abuse in my address.
On the contrary, the South was given credit for all
the praiseworthy things that it had done. A white
lady who was teacher in a college in Tuskegee wrote
back to the local paper that she was gratified, as
well as surprised, to note the credit which I gave
the white people of Tuskegee for their help in getting
the school started. This address at Madison
was the first that I had delivered that in any large
measure dealt with the general problem of the
races. Those who heard it seemed to be pleased
with what I said and with the general position that
I took.

When I first came to Tuskegee, I determined
that I would make it my home, that I would take
as much pride in the right actions of the people of
the town as any white man could do, and that I
would, at the same time, deplore the wrong-doing
of the people as much as any white man. I determined
never to say anything in a public address in
the North that I would not be willing to say in the
South. I early learned that it is a hard matter to
convert an individual by abusing him, and that this
is more often accomplished by giving credit for all
the praiseworthy actions performed than by calling
attention alone to all the evil done.

While pursuing this policy I have not failed, at
the proper time and in the proper manner, to call
attention, in no uncertain terms, to the wrongs
which any part of the South has been guilty of. I
have found that there is a large element in the
South that is quick to respond to straightforward,
honest criticism of any wrong policy. As a rule,
the place to criticise the South, when criticism is
necessary, is in the South - not in Boston. A
Boston man who came to Alabama to criticise
Boston would not effect so much good, I think,
as one who had his word of criticism to say in
Boston.

In this address at Madison I took the ground
that the policy to be pursued with reference to the
races was, by every honourable means, to bring
them together and to encourage the cultivation of
friendly relations, instead of doing that which would
embitter. I further contended that, in relation to
his vote, the Negro should more and more consider
the interests of the community in which he lived,
rather than seek alone to please some one who
lived a thousand miles away from him and from
his interests.

In this address I said that the whole future of
the Negro rested largely upon the question as to
whether or not he should make himself, through
his skill, intelligence, and character, of such
undeniable value to the community in which he lived
that the community could not dispense with his
presence. I said that any individual who learned
to do something better than anybody else - learned
to do a common thing in an uncommon manner
- had solved his problem, regardless of the colour
of his skin, and that in proportion as the Negro
learned to produce what other people wanted and
must have, in the same proportion would he be
respected.

I spoke of an instance where one of our graduates
had produced two hundred and sixty-six
bushels of sweet potatoes from an acre of ground,
in a community where the average production had
been only forty-nine bushels to the acre. He
had been able to do this by reason of his knowledge
of the chemistry of the soil and by his
knowledge of improved methods of agriculture.
The white farmers in the neighbourhood respected
him, and came to him for ideas regarding the raising
of sweet potatoes. These white farmers
honoured and respected him because he, by his skill
and knowledge, had added something to the wealth
and the comfort of the community in which he
lived. I explained that my theory of education for
the Negro would not, for example, confine him for
all time to farm life - to the production of the
best and the most sweet potatoes - but that, if
he succeeded in this line of industry, he could lay
the foundations upon which his children and
grandchildren could grow to higher and more important
things in life.

Such, in brief, were some of the views I advocated
in this first address dealing with the broad question
of the relations of the two races, and since that time
I have not found any reason for changing my views
on any important point.

In my early life I used to cherish a feeling of ill
will toward any one who spoke in bitter terms
against the Negro, or who advocated measures that
tended to oppress the black man or take from him
opportunities for growth in the most complete manner.
Now, whenever I hear any one advocating
measures that are meant to curtail the development
of another, I pity the individual who would do this.
I know that the one who makes this mistake does
so because of his own lack of opportunity for the
highest kind of growth. I pity him because I know
that he is trying to stop the progress of the world,
and because I know that in time the development
and the ceaseless advance of humanity will make
him ashamed of his weak and narrow position.
One might as well try to stop the progress of a
mighty railroad train by throwing his body across
the track, as to try to stop the growth of the world
in the direction of giving mankind more intelligence,
more culture, more skill, more liberty, and in
the direction of extending more sympathy and more
brotherly kindness.

The address which I delivered at Madison, before
the National Educational Association, gave me a
rather wide introduction in the North, and soon
after that opportunities began offering themselves
for me to address audiences there.

I was anxious, however, that the way might also
be opened for me to speak directly to a representative
Southern white audience. A partial opportunity
of this kind, one that seemed to me might
serve as an entering wedge, presented itself in
1893, when the international meeting of Christian
Workers was held at Atlanta, Ga. When this
invitation came to me, I had engagements in Boston
that seemed to make it impossible for me to
speak in Atlanta. Still, after looking over my list
of dates and places carefully, I found that I could
take a train from Boston that would get me into
Atlanta about thirty minutes before my address was
to be delivered, and that I could remain in that city
about sixty minutes before taking another train for
Boston. My invitation to speak in Atlanta stipulated
that I was to confine my address to five
minutes. The question, then, was whether or not I
could put enough into a five-minute address to
make it worth while for me to make such a trip.

I knew that the audience would be largely
composed of the most influential class of white men and
women, and that it would be a rare opportunity for
me to let them know what we were trying to do at
Tuskegee, as well as to speak to them about the
relations of the races. So I decided to make the
trip. I spoke for five minutes to an audience of
two thousand people, composed mostly of Southern
and Northern whites. What I said seemed to be
received with favour and enthusiasm. The Atlanta
papers of the next day commented in friendly terms
on my address, and a good deal was said about it in
different parts of the country. I felt that I had in
some degree accomplished my object - that of
getting a hearing from the dominant class of the South.

The demands made upon me for public addresses
continued to increase, coming in about equal
numbers from my own people and from Northern whites.
I gave as much time to these addresses as I could
spare from the immediate work at Tuskegee. Most
of the addresses in the North were made for the
direct purpose of getting funds with which to
support the school. Those delivered before the
coloured people had for their main object the
impressing upon them of the importance of industrial
and technical education in addition to academic and
religious training.

I now come to that one of the incidents in my
life which seems to have excited the greatest amount
of interest, and which perhaps went further than
anything else in giving me a reputation that in a
sense might be called National. I refer to the
address which I delivered at the opening of the
Atlanta Cotton states and International Exposition,
at Atlanta, Ga., September 18, 1895.

So much has been said and written about this
incident, and so many questions have been asked
me concerning the address, that perhaps I may be
excused for taking up the matter with some detail.
The five-minute address in Atlanta, which I came
from Boston to deliver, was possibly the prime
cause for an opportunity being given me to make
the second address there. In the spring of 1895 I
received a telegram from prominent citizens in
Atlanta asking me to accompany a committee from
that city to Washington for the purpose of appearing
before a committee of Congress in the interest
of securing Government help for the Exposition.
The committee was composed of about twenty-five
of the most prominent and most influential white
men of Georgia. All the members of this
committee were white men except Bishop Grant, Bishop
Gaines, and myself. The Mayor and several other
city and state officials spoke before the committee.
They were followed by the two coloured bishops.
My name was the last on the list of speakers. I
had never before appeared before such a committee,
nor had I ever delivered any address in the capital
of the Nation. I had many misgivings as to what
I ought to say, and as to the impression that my
address would make. While I cannot recall in
detail what I said, I remember that I tried to
impress upon the committee, with all the earnestness
and plainness of any language that I could
command, that if Congress wanted to do something
which would assist in ridding the South of the race
question and making friends between the two races,
it should, in every proper way, encourage the material
and intellectual growth of both races. I said
that the Atlanta Exposition would present an opportunity
for both races to show what advance they
had made since freedom, and would at the same
time afford encouragement to them to make still
greater progress.

I tried to emphasize the fact that while the Negro
should not be deprived by unfair means of the franchise,
political agitation alone would not save him,
and that back of the ballot he must have property,
industry, skill, economy, intelligence, and character,
and that no race without these elements could
permanently succeed. I said that in granting the
appropriation Congress could do something that
would prove to be of real and lasting value to both
races, and that it was the first great opportunity of
the kind that had been presented since the close of
the Civil War.

I spoke for fifteen or twenty minutes, and was
surprised at the close of my address to receive the
hearty congratulations of the Georgia committee
and of the members of Congress who were present.
The Committee was unanimous in making a
favourable report, and in a few days the bill passed
Congress. With the passing of this bill the success
of the Atlanta Exposition was assured.

Soon after this trip to Washington the directors
of the Exposition decided that it would be a fitting
recognition of the coloured race to erect a large and
attractive building which should be devoted wholly
to showing the progress of the Negro since freedom.
It was further decided to have the building designed
and erected wholly by Negro mechanics. This plan
was carried out. In design, beauty, and general
finish the Negro Building was equal to the others on
the grounds.

After it was decided to have a separate Negro
exhibit, the question arose as to who should take
charge of it. The officials of the Exposition were
anxious that I should assume this responsibility,
but I declined to do so, on the plea that the work
at Tuskegee at that time demanded my time and
strength. Largely at my suggestion, Mr. I. Garland
Penn, of Lynchburg, Va., was selected to be
at the head of the Negro department. I gave him
all the aid that I could. The Negro exhibit, as a
whole, was large and creditable. The two exhibits
in this department which attracted the greatest
amount of attention were those from the Hampton
Institute and the Tuskegee Institute. The people
who seemed to be the most surprised, as well as
pleased, at what they saw in the Negro Building
were the Southern white people.

As the day for the opening of the Exposition
drew near, the Board of Directors began preparing
the programme for the opening exercises. In the
discussion from day to day of the various features
of this programme, the question came up as to the
advisability of putting a member of the Negro race
on for one of the opening addresses, since the
Negroes had been asked to take such a prominent
part in the Exposition. It was argued, further,
that such recognition would mark the good
feeling prevailing between the two races. Of
course there were those who were opposed to any
such recognition of the rights of the Negro, but the
Board of Directors, composed of men who
represented the best and most progressive element in the
South, had their way, and voted to invite a black
man to speak on the opening day. The next thing
was to decide upon the person who was thus to
represent the Negro race. After the question had
been canvassed for several days, the directors voted
unanimously to ask me to deliver one of the
opening-day addresses, and in a few days after that I
received the official invitation.

The receiving of this invitation brought to me a
sense of responsibility that it would be hard for any
one not placed in my position to appreciate. What
were my feelings when this invitation came to me?
I remembered that I had been a slave; that my
early years had been spent in the lowest depths of
poverty and ignorance, and that I had had little
opportunity to prepare me for such a responsibility
as this. It was only a few years before that
time that any white man in the audience might
have claimed me as his slave; and it was easily
possible that some of my former owners might be
present to hear me speak.

I knew, too, that this was the first time in the
entire history of the Negro that a member of my
race had been asked to speak from the same
platform with white Southern men and women on any
important National occasion. I was asked now to
speak to an audience composed of the wealth and
culture of the white South, the representatives of
my former masters. I knew, too, that while the
greater part of my audience would be composed of
Southern people, yet there would be present a large
number of Northern whites, as well as a great many
men and women of my own race.

I was determined to say nothing that I did not
feel from the bottom of my heart to be true and
right. When the invitation came to me, there was
not one word of intimation as to what I should say
or as to what I should omit. In this I felt that the
Board of Directors had paid a tribute to me. They
knew that by one sentence I could have blasted, in
a large degree, the success of the Exposition. I
was also painfully conscious of the fact that, while
I must be true to my own race in my utterances, I
had it in my power to make such an ill-timed
address as would result in preventing any similar
invitation being extended to a black man again for
years to come. I was equally determined to be
true to the North, as well as to the best element of
the white South, in what I had to say.

The papers, North and South, had taken up the
discussion of my coming speech, and as the time
for it drew near this discussion became more and
more widespread. Not a few of the Southern white
papers were unfriendly to the idea of my speaking.
From my own race I received many suggestions as
to what I ought to say. I prepared myself as best
I could for the address, but as the eighteenth of
September drew nearer, the heavier my heart
became, and the more I feared that my effort would
prove a failure and a disappointment.

The invitation had come at a time when I was
very busy with my school work, as it was the
beginning of our school year. After preparing my
address, I went through it, as I usually do with all
those utterances which I consider particularly
important, with Mrs. Washington, and she approved
of what I intended to say. On the sixteenth of
September, the day before I was to start for Atlanta,
so many of the Tuskegee teachers expressed a
desire to hear my address that I consented to read it
to them in a body. When I had done so, and had
heard their criticisms and comments, I felt somewhat
relieved, since they seemed to think well of
what I had to say.

On the morning of
September 17, together with
Mrs. Washington and my three children, I started
for Atlanta. I felt a good deal as I suppose a man
feels when he is on his way to the gallows. In
passing through the town of Tuskegee I met a
white farmer who lived some distance out in the
country. In a jesting manner this man said:
"Washington, you have spoken before the Northern
white people, the Negroes in the South, and
to us country white people in the South; but in
Atlanta, to-morrow, you will have before you the
Northern whites, the Southern whites, and the
Negroes all together. I am afraid that you have got
yourself into a tight place." This farmer diagnosed
the situation correctly, but his frank words did not
add anything to my comfort.

In the course of the journey from Tuskegee to
Atlanta both coloured and white people came to
the train to point me out, and discussed with
perfect freedom, in my hearing, what was going to
take place the next day. We were met by a
committee in Atlanta. Almost the first thing that I
heard when I got off the train in that city was an
expression something like this from an old coloured
man near by: "Dat's de man of my race what's
gwine to make a speech at de Exposition to-morrow.
I'se sho' gwine to hear him."

Atlanta was literally packed, at the time, with
people from all parts of this country, and with
representatives of foreign governments, as well as
with military and civic organizations. The afternoon
papers had forecasts of the next day's
proceedings in flaring headlines. All this tended to
add to my burden. I did not sleep much that
night. The next morning, before day, I went
carefully over what I intended to say. I also kneeled
down and asked God's blessing upon my effort.
Right here, perhaps, I ought to add that I make it
a rule never to go before an audience, on any occasion,
without asking the blessing of God upon what
I want to say.

I always make it a rule to make especial preparation
for each separate address. No two audiences
are exactly alike. It is my aim to reach and talk to
the heart of each individual audience, taking it into
my confidence very much as I would a person.
When I am speaking to an audience, I care little
for how what I am saying is going to sound in the
newspapers, or to another audience, or to an
individual. At the time, the audience before me
absorbs all my sympathy, thought, and energy.

Early in the morning a committee called to
escort me to my place in the procession which
was to march to the Exposition grounds. In this
procession were prominent coloured citizens in
carriages, as well as several Negro military organizations.
I noted that the Exposition officials seemed
to go out of their way to see that all of the coloured
people in the procession were properly placed and
properly treated. The procession was about three
hours in reaching the Exposition grounds, and during
all of this time the sun was shining down upon
us disagreeably hot. When we reached the grounds,
the heat, together with my nervous anxiety, made
me feel as if I were about ready to collapse, and to
feel that my address was not going to be a success.
When I entered the audience-room, I found it
packed with humanity from bottom to top, and
there were thousands outside who could not get in.

The room was very large, and well suited to public
speaking. When I entered the room, there were
vigorous cheers from the coloured portion of the
audience, and faint cheers from some of the white
people. I had been told, while I had been in
Atlanta, that while many white people were going
to be present to hear me speak, simply out of
curiosity, and that others who would be present
would be in full sympathy with me, there was
a still larger element of the audience which would
consist of those who were going to be present for
the purpose of hearing me make a fool of myself,
or, at least, of hearing me say some foolish thing,
so that they could say to the officials who had
invited me to speak, "I told you so!"

One of the trustees of the Tuskegee Institute, as
well as my personal friend, Mr. William H. Baldwin,
Jr. was at the time General Manager of the
Southern Railroad, and happened to be in Atlanta
on that day. He was so nervous about the kind
of reception that I would have, and the effect that
my speech would produce, that he could not
persuade himself to go into the building, but walked
back and forth in the grounds outside until the
opening exercises were over.